


All That's Left of Yesterday

by CantSpeakFae



Series: Once More With Glitter [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Ben clearly has a crush on him, Demonic Possession, Demonic Powers, Grief/Mourning, I have a lot of feelings about characters who never got any screen time, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Other, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Randall's picking up the pieces of his life, Still riding the angst train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: While Giles is facing down his childhood monster, Randall is facing the light of day for the first time in fifteen years and two headstones where there should have only been one.





	All That's Left of Yesterday

Randall stands flush against the bars of his cage, his forehead pressed against the solid steel, in a desperate attempt to cool his flushed skin. He hadn’t slept well and it shows on his face. Dark circles under his dark eyes and a grimacing expression. Fever dreams had him tossing and turning in his small cot, not fully asleep but unable to pull free from the nightmare’s hold.    
  
No, not a nightmare. A memory.    
  
It’d been so long since he’d last thought about his last night as a free man. Some things you don’t forget - the pain of dying, the cold of Eyghon’s magic filling your body - but the details get lost with time. Fade into the background. Not last night, though. He’d remembered every detail, no matter how small. And it had taken everything out of him to do so. He feels sick and he blames the conversation he had with Ronald, nearly three days ago. If it wasn’t for him, he never would have been  _ thinking _ about that night.   
  
He can’t even bring himself to cringe away from the bars when he hears the creak of the hinges on the trap door and the footsteps on the stairs. Part of him wonders if it’s Ronald, coming to take matters into his own hands and find a way to bend the will of The Council in his favour. Maybe blind Randall so he can’t be of any use to them in the field. Just a vessel for magic that doesn’t belong to him.    
  
But it’s not Ronald who calls out to him.   
  
“Hey, you’re up! I wasn’t sure you would be… I know it’s kind of early, but Travers wanted me to make sure you had everything you needed so we can get you on the next flight to California. Mr. Giles flew ahead… he should already be there. I think he wanted to prepare the Slayer for your arrival? Anyway, I brought you some clothes!”

Randall keeps his head bowed and pressed against the bars, just listening to Ben speak. He’s younger than most of the “Watchers” he comes into contact with… practically a boy, still, in his early twenties. He’s not sure what, exactly, he did to have been promoted with the task of being in on the secret about Randall’s existence and guarding him, but he’s been careful never to trust him.    
  
It’s been difficult, though. Ben is generally the most pleasant than the rest of them and uses his name. Most of them just call him “The Sleepwalker”. Inappropriate, at best. He’s not really Eyghon. He’s not here as a replacement. He’s like a fucking cookie jar for magic, just holding it all in. Not really able to control it, but unable to stop using it too.   
  
“Hey, are you okay?”    
  
Randall lifts his head, then, a lopsided smile on his lips.   
  
“Always. Even better when you’re here.”   
  
Ben blushes. Randall can see it, even in the faint lighting.   
  
“Uh...here. I picked them out, myself. I didn’t think you’d want to show up in the clothes you have in there or in the tweed we have out here. This is just one outfit, the rest got packed away.”   
  
Ben pushes the clothes up to the bars and Randall, somewhat unwillingly, takes a step back and holds out his hands to receive them. He has no idea what to expect… but they look normal. Plain shirt, jeans, and -   
  
“It’s going to be a bit hot for this in California, isn’t?”   
  
He’s holding up a leather jacket, eyebrows raised, but the full effect of his questioning gaze is lost in the darkness. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never been.”    
  
Randall has to try really, really hard not to roll his eyes as Ben continues on, still just as cheerful.   
  
“But it’s cold outside, here. Besides, it’ll look good with these.”   
  
Ben pulls something out from the pocket of his tweed coat. A pair of sunglasses? He holds them out gingerly to Randall, who just stares at them like he’s never seen anything like them.   
  
“...Are you intentionally trying to dress me like a wanker?”   
  
“What? No! You haven’t seen a lot of natural light in a while. It’s going to be really bright in California and that could damage your eyes or hurt your head and we need you in working order if you’re going to be an effective weapon.”    
  
Any warm or fuzzy feelings Randall had for Ben vanished with only a sour taste left on his tongue.   
  
“And...well, they hide your eyes so you can’t hypnotize me while we’re on the plane, hijack it, fly to Brazil, and start your new life off the grid.”    
  
“...Why Brazil?”   
  
“Where else would you go?”    
  
“Rome.”   
  
Randall snorts a sharp laugh. This can’t be a real conversation he’s having… and he’s amazed that Ben thinks that these could possibly protect him from The Sleepwalker’s influences. He’s not a street magician, the trick doesn’t come from looking into his eyes. But if that’s what they want to believe, then he’s not going to say otherwise. A man has to have a few secrets for himself, after all. He takes the sunglasses from Ben and sets them aside, pulling his shirt off so he can change into his new outfit. Even if it is a bit ponce-y, it’s better than the dull garb he’s been wearing for the last fifteen years in this godforsaken space.   
  
“You kinda look like James Dean.”    
  
“That’s very American of you.”   
  
“Put the glasses on.”    
  
“It’s too fucking dark, I’ll run into things.”   
  
“I’ll guide you.”    
  
“I said no.”   
  
“Randall -”    
  
“Don’t ask me again.”   
  
There it is. The chilled tone, like ice. He can’t see the glow of his eyes, but he knows Ben can and that it only registers with him for a moment before his will folds in on itself and is outweighed by the force of Randall’s. The magic weaves a tangled web through his brain and Randall knows that Ben won’t even remember that it was Randall’s order; he’ll think it was his own decision not to force him.    
  
And Randall feels a bit like an asshole. But not enough so to take it back. Ben’s one of them. He may not have been there the whole time; may not have participated in the constant torture, the whipping, and every other painful attempt to force a little more of Eyghon’s power out of him in a demonstration of what a useful “weapon” he could be but there’s no doubt in his mind that he would have if he had been there.    
  
They’re all the same, these Watchers. Don’t care about anything but themselves and the bullshit cause they use as a front to further their own needs. Using anything and anyone they can.    
  
And now it’s his turn to be used and discarded like so many other “tools” of this place. Why wait? Better to just get it over with.   
  
“Let me out.”   
  
His tone is still cold and Ben moves obediently forward to unlock the cage.    
  
For the first time in too many years to count, Randall steps out without chains around his wrists or the feeling of dread that he’s about to walk into a world of pain.    
  
If Sunnydale is going to kill him, then he’s at least going to enjoy every moment before he goes back down. There’s just... one thing he has to do, first.   
  
“C’mon, Ben. We’re taking a little detour, you and I.”

 

* * *

 

Alice Ricci’s grave had been a fixture in his life, long before he’d met his own painful and untimely end. It was a place he’d go when it was all too much; when he was drowning in spiraling thoughts and needed some kind of serenity to put his mind at ease. He’d lost count of how many times he’d had a row with Ripper or had been pushed to the edge by the increasing pressure of their situation and had run off into the night, only to be found sitting in silence in front of his older sister’s grave. Seeking the peace of her presence even if she was under the ground and no longer able to offer him any words of comfort. 

  
It’d been fifteen years since the time when he’d last stood in this spot. He’d been bracing himself for changes to mark the time that had passed. Weathered stone with etched words eroded by the winds and rains that plagued London. But he hadn’t been expecting to see  _ this _ . He could see the touches of time, but it wasn’t Alice’s grave that his eyes were drawn to.    
  
It was the one next to it.   
  
“...Oh.”   
  
He stands there, gaping like an idiot, feeling as though all the air has been knocked from his lungs. Unsure if he wants to laugh or cry. The grass, recently soaked by rain, sloshes beneath his shoes as he crouches down in front of it, first reading the words etched into the much more recent headstone… and then tracing over it with his fingertips while his free hand pulls the sunglasses off of his face, ignoring the way the natural light - even dim, grey light - hurts his eyes. He needs his vision unobstructed like it’s a trick of the light.    
  
**Lia Evans** .   
  
Finally at peace, buried next to her daughter. Randall brushes his fingers against the date etched into her headstone, next, feeling what was left of his composure give way when he realized that she’d only died a year ago. His vision blurred, but this time it wasn’t because the light hurt, and he hastily drew back away from the grave to wipe at his eyes before the tears could fall, giving a little, shaky laugh, realizing that his mother would get a kick out of this. She’d never even _liked_ him, and here he was, still crying at her grave.   
  
“...Hey, Mamma. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here.”   
  
His voice comes out, oddly strangled, like the words are choking him and his hands shake when he pushes them into his pockets, still crouched down and staring at the two graves. It’s funny, but he hadn’t thought about what the passage of time was doing to his mother. She’d always been the same in his mind; never changing. Completely untouchable. He’d imagined that she was celebrating his disappearance. Finally free from the son that had plagued her… but, for the first time, unencumbered by bitter thoughts, he realized that she hadn’t been freed of anything when he left. Just left alone, to fend for herself, no one to fall back on when the battle against her own mind got to be too much. No one to remind her to take her medication or let her stay the night when she was booted from yet another flat. No one to care about her, no matter how awful she was. Did anyone even look in on her after he “died”? Did any of his old “friends” think of her? Or did they run before his body had even hit the ground without ever looking back?   
  
His breathing comes out as gasps of agony and springs back to his feet, holding his head in his hands and struggling to get ahold of himself. A surge of energy under his skin, the Sleepwalker’s power reacting to his upset. Fighting to get hold of him, and lure him back to euphoria. It’d be so easy to give into it; use the energy and let its blissful high restore the peace in his mind.   
  
But he struggles.    
  
Wearily, he struggles. He doesn’t  _ want _ peace, now. Doesn’t deserve it; he wasn’t  _ there _ for her, and now she’s gone. Lia had been his last real tie to this world. Maybe that was why he’d never imagined her getting older or changing at all. Been expecting to find her as soon as he stepped out of the Council Building, waiting to shriek at him in Italian and smack the back of his head for every infraction. The only constant in his life.   
  
Funny how he could miss that, now.   
  
He’s still crying. He can’t wipe away the tears fast enough so he just lets them fall, staring miserably at the two of them. His family. Little and broken as it was; it had been  _ his _ and what did he have left, now?    
  
He crouches back down. Touching his hand back to his mother’s headstone.   
  
He hopes it better where she is. Kinder. Cleaner. He hopes that her mind is finally untangled from the snares of disease and that she can think and find peace. He really hopes that she and Alice find each other. He hasn’t prayed to a God in so long… but he does, now, because he’s not sure anyone else did. His mother hadn’t had any friends in life, he’s not even sure who paid for her grave or knew to put her next to Alice.    
  
He prays because he needs them to be at peace, because he very well may never be.   
  
“ _ Dio nostro Padre, _ __   
_ Il tuo potere ci porta alla nascita, _ __   
_ La tua provvidenza guida le nostre vite, _ _   
_ _ e con il tuo comando torniamo alla  _ __ polvere.

__   
_ Signore, quelli che muoiono vivono ancora nella tua presenza, _ __   
_ le loro vite cambiano ma non finiscono. _ __   
_ Prego nella speranza per la mia famiglia, _ __   
_ parenti e amici, _ __   
__ e per tutti i morti noti solo a te.”   
  


He stammers over the last line, taking a deep breath and steadying himself to finish the prayer.   
  
“ _ In compagnia di Cristo, _ __   
_ Chi è morto e ora vive, _ __   
_ possano rallegrarsi nel tuo regno, _ __   
_ dove tutte le nostre lacrime sono state spazzate via. _ __   
_ Unirci di nuovo insieme in una famiglia, _ __   
_ cantare le tue lodi per sempre. _ __   
__   
_... _ Amen _.” _ __   
__   
He rises, again, pushing the sunglasses back on, this time to hide the red-rimmed eyes, and affectionately brushes his hand against the top of both graves, murmuring a little spell and watching as a wreath of brightly coloured flower appears on each one. Eyghon’s power makes simple spells like that a lot easier and the high of magic that he’d been fighting off overtakes him, halting his tears and giving him a sense of undeserved peace.    
  
Satisfied with his work, he turns away from the graves for the last time, strolling back over to where Ben stands, frozen at his command, waiting for the next order. Randall tsks. He might actually miss this kid; the impressionable ones were so easy to work with.    
  
He pats Ben’s shoulder, breaking him out of his statuesque stance.   
  
“Alright, I’m ready. Lead me to hell, Virgil.”

**Author's Note:**

> ***The Italian spoken by Randall roughly translates into a Catholic prayer for the dead.


End file.
